Tomorrow's Epiphany
by Lady of Tears
Summary: As the wizarding world mourns the loss of a brilliant student, a young man, with no memory of his life, must try to find out who he is. He hopes that with every tomorrow he waits for will hold the epiphany that will let him unlock the secrets of his past.


_**Tomorrow's Epiphany**_

**_Summary: As the wizarding world mourns the loss of a brilliant student, a young man, with no memory of his life, must try to find out who he is, hoping every tomorrow he waits for will hold the epiphany that will hold the keys to unlock his past. _**

_**Author's Note: Before I even got a quarter of the way through the original version of this chapter, I learned of a contest at I decided to use what I had and modified my idea to fit the contest. Now, a few months later, I've found my entry fits better than ever with my story. So, that contest was my inspiration and if you see it, it is my work. **_

_**Enjoy.**_

_**Prologue**_

_The past is safe._

_We didn't know it at the time, but we know it now. It seemed so uncertain, so bleak and disastrous. But really, it was fine. The past is safe because we survived. We conquered. We grew. Our memories prove that. _

_But what if you don't have memories?_

_What if all you have is the dream that maybe you were once loved, once cherished? At night, when sleep eludes you, what do you do when you suddenly realize that maybe no one cares that you're gone? That those people who you assume were a part of your life couldn't care less that you sleep in a rickety bed in a run down orphanage, with no idea of who you are. _

_What if your only comfort is the presumption that your eyes once watered with a joy you'll never know again? With a love you'd give anything to remember?_

_What if you have nothing at all? _

_Then maybe the past isn't so safe. Maybe, it's best forgotten. _

_Amos, St. Jude's Orphanage_

Things always had a way of reorienting themselves around gaps. As long as there were more who wanted to move forward, those who were left were always dragged along. It was like taking a pebble out of a stream; everything else just moves in to fill up that hole. It felt like they were the only ones still stomping around trying to kick up the water.

But it didn't matter how hard they kicked. It didn't matter how many times she would look at this picture, wishing she could hold him again. They said she'd move on. It was only natural after all.

They told her, "He'll always be a hero."

"They'll never forget."

But it wouldn't be long. He would be a name in a book in a chapter describing a dark and dreadful day. But the book would get old. Its pages would yellow and its spine would break. Heroes with more grandeur and fame than he ever had would rise. He'd just be a name people would swear on.

He'd never again be the boy that had a curious obsession with Quidditch. No one would know that he had a favorite armchair by the fire, or that he loved to just sit and listen to people talk.

No, he'd just be a name. The name of someone who never actually existed.

It made her want to cry.

She placed her pale cheek against the wooden door, her slender fingers shaking furiously as she reached for the golden doorknob. It seemed to take all her strength just to turn it, her breath shallow and ragged.

Ever since that day she wasn't able to open it. For countless hours she'd walk past the door, sometimes gathering the strength to reach out for the knob. But she was never able to open it. Seeing his room, the place where he once smiled and slept; it was just too much.

She had to turn away; her eyes squeezed shut with tears glistening on the tips of her eyelashes. The first sliver of light came as she pushed the door open. A gush of warm air enveloped her, and, with fear etched on her face, her grey eyes fluttered open.

Nothing had changed. Somehow she had expected it to be different, that the room that was his for seventeen years would know that its occupant was gone.

But the heat of the summer sun was beating in through the glass windows, the plain curtains flutter softly in the warm breeze. She took in a deep breath, the scent of the fresh grass and the flowers in the front yard nearly overcoming her.

She rubbed her eyes absentmindedly, brushing away the tears as she stared at her son's room. Her feet dragged slightly on the wood floor as she walked, almost resisting, not wanting to explore the darkness that had been pushed back for so long. For a moment, she didn't know what to do. It had taken her such a long time to even open the door. Now, her gaze traveled slowly around the room, trying to soak in his faint impression that still seemed to linger.

Her eyes burned.

Out of her glassy vision she could see the Quidditch players from his favorite team waving frantically at her familiar face out of a poster still tacked up on the wall. She glanced over stoically, trying to imagine what her son looked like when she first saw him in his Quidditch uniform. His father had been so excited, so proud of his only son. They even went to see him in his first Quidditch game.

It had been raining that day. Though the torrent of droplets had ceased, the clouds still loomed over them, dark and dangerous. Every once in awhile a low rumble would sound in the distance, a spark of blinding golden light following soon after.

But that didn't stop his father from coming. How ecstatic he was! A small smile used to come to her face every time that she imagined him, walking down the halls of the Ministry of Magic, telling anyone who would listen that his son was on the Quidditch team.

"My boy!" he'd cry out. "I always knew my boy would be on the team! He's meant for greatness, he is!"

His father didn't talk much anymore.

The cheers of the students at Hogwarts filled her ears. That rainy day was haunting her now. Her husband had been jumping up so many times that his hat kept falling onto the wet stands. He was so excited that he'd just plop the hat back on his head, though it made an uncomfortable squishing noise. But she had found that she couldn't sit down. Her hands had been gripping the railing tightly, knuckles white. A sigh of relief seemed to shoot through her every time she saw her son zip by the stands in pursuit.

If anyone had asked, she could have easily described the feelings she felt that day. She had been so proud and joyous she had wanted to burst out into tears. He had come up to them after the game, splattered with mud and sweat. His teammates clapped him on the back, congratulating themselves on their win. Even amid the cheers and shouts of celebration, she was sure she heard the words "butterbeer" and "party".

She had to turn away from the poster.

She slumped and leaned against the dresser, her hand outstretched, grasping for the edge as if she were blind. No matter what she did, she saw him. Right now her legs felt like they were made out of the chocolate pudding she'd make during the holidays. Automatically, his face came back to her, smiling graciously as he charmed the wrapping paper off his gifts to jump around the room.

She could think of anything, anything at all, and she'd think of him.

Perhaps out of distress, or maybe out of weakness, she had inadvertently made her way to the bed. Every shred of her common sense was telling her to leave the room. Close the door, learn to let go. But she was hungry now; she could feel the monster roaring inside of her.

She needed something more than the feeling of his lifeless form in her arms, those familiar eyes wide and open, staring into the eternities.

Her fingers touched the soft comforter, tracing little circles in the same spot, over and over again. Did he really sleep here? Did he really even exist? Maybe he was just a brilliant dream that had turned into a nightmare.

But, oh, she could just see him there! It caught her by surprise, how quickly his image came back to her. His figure was sprawled out beneath the covers, tufts of messy brown hair poking out from beneath the layers, as it always had been on summer mornings.

A desperate cry rang out from the depths of her soul, a burning, almost maddening desire blazing in her eyes. Fighting the tremors that shook her body, she sank down to her knees. Her hand quickly reached for the cover, as if to pull back that thin veil that separated her and her son.

_Just let me see his face…_

In one moment the cover was pulled back. The bed was empty. She kneaded her forehead with her knuckles in complete exasperation. What had she been expecting? Did she really believe she would have the chance to see his smile, to hear his voice telling her one more time that it was going to be okay?

That's what he had told her.

He had told her every time she would hug him from worry, in every letter he ever sent since his name had been spewed forth from the flames of that blasted cup. That it was going to be okay.

Dull strands of hair fell around her face as she placed her cheek on the bed. Though they were still red, her eyes were dry. The hollowness was closing in on her now. It was a void. Just like his eyes had been. A shudder passed through her. How could life be extinguished so quickly? With a flash of green light her son had been taken from the world. He was dead before his body had even crumbled to the ground. Had he seen their faces in those last moments? Did he know how much they loved him? Or had it all been just an emerald haze, rushing towards him, snuffing out his life before he could take in his final breath?

There had been a whirlwind of colors that night. Banners were waving, colored streamers floating through the air. Many had been chanting his name, their voices like a roar. The noise only grew as he raised his arm in triumph before he turned his back to the crowd. It was the last time she had seen her son alive. He had given her a smile, pumping his arm again for his father. Ludo Bagman gave a short blast of a whistle and, at the start of the Third Task, Cedric rushed off in eagerness toward his unforeseeable doom.

All had gone quiet then. The students had begun to murmur, blinded by the hedges that kept them from the happenings of the maze. After some time had passed, Bagman announced Fleur Delacour had failed the task. Suddenly, a cry echoed loudly from the crowd as a flash of red sparks had flown into the air. The blood red color sparkled before her eyes, which were lined with unsuspecting terror. Her heart had given a wild thump and her head snapped to her husband. But Amos Diggory had just shaken his head, his eyes ablaze with a fierce pride.

"No darling," he had said simply. "Cedric's going to win."

Looking back, she would have much rather he had come in last place rather than touching that cup first. In fact, she wished that the Triwizard Tournament had never been invented. But she couldn't change it now.

She quickly pushed herself up, though she wobbled as she did so. With trembling fingers she pulled the covers back up, though the effect was quite messy. For a second a smile was able to break through the fortress. She held her arms as if cradling a baby, though the sweet remembrance twisted the knife deeper into her heart. Was it always going to be like this? Would she not be able to reminisce in happiness? It had been a joyous sixteen years. He had been their only son, the light of their lives. Amos doted on him; they both wanted to give Cedric the world, ever since the time he was a baby. Something that could have been a chuckle escaped her. The memories were odd and distorted in her mind. It was like each one had been a bauble, glittering and beautiful. But they crashed and now that she was trying to tape the shards back together…well, her life with Cedric didn't even seem real anymore. It was just a dream now, slowly fading away into the far reaches of her mind.

She looked at her cradled arms. A soft voice seemed to whisper through the ages. There had been a song she would sing to him. Could she even utter a word of it without tainting the memory with the dark stains of his death? It had once been such a happy song. It had been the first thing to make him smile. The thought of his little fingers reaching towards her, his eyes drooping slightly as she rocked him to sleep. Her voice chocked as she started singing.

"Golden slumber, kiss your eyes…"

"_I knew Ced would win! That's my boy!" Amos cried as the crowd jumped to their feet. But she couldn't hear his voice. Her heart was beating now at an alarming rate. The people were closing in now on the two figures that had magically appeared at the entrance to the maze. Her husband held on tightly to her hand, pulling her through. Suddenly, a scream rippled through the air. She almost collapsed as cries began to erupt from all around them. The screeches were rising in the air now. _

"_He's dead! He's dead!"_

"…smiles await you when you rise…"

_Amos Diggory let go of his wife's hand. _

_The scene was flickering oddly before her eyes. Girls were sobbing hysterically now. Amos was nearing the two figures, running as hard as he could. She stood still for a moment before a single voice cut through the chaos. _

"_Dumbledore, Amos Diggory's running…he's coming over…Don't you think you should tell him --- before he sees ---?"_

"Sleep, pretty baby, don't cry…"

_A sudden silence chilled the air. She pushed through the crowd that seemed to have made a path for her. Her husband was pushing against Cornelius Fudge, who looked quite disconcerted, but he was able to break through. As she heard a roar of pain escape from her husband's lips she stopped rushing towards him. _

_Rather now, she was floating._

_She was so close now. There was only one figure; the second champion seemed to have disappeared. But that hardly mattered as her warm grey eyes looked down. She felt herself dying as she saw her husband, cradling a limp figure, tears streaming down his face. _

"…and I will sing a lullaby."

"_My boy!" Amos Diggory cried. "My wonderful boy!" _

"Care you know not, therefore sleep…"

_Various arms grabbed at her as she sunk to the ground. The smell of grass and blood filled her nostrils. Horrible bile was rising in her throat; the warm air was starting to suffocate her. She crawled over to his body; her husband was now trying to avoid being pulled off. But Amos Diggory blinked furiously at her, his entire body slumping as his wife took her son's body into her arms. _

"…while I o'er you watch do keep."

_His wonderful grey eyes were open, blank and expressionless, his mouth slightly parted, still looking mildly surprised. There was a bit of dried blood on his cheek. The taste of death and pain in her mouth, she bent down and kissed her son's forehead._

"Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry…"

There was a snag in her voice and she brought her palm to her mouth, as if her simple body of skin and bones, blood and muscle, could stop the scream of agony that was begging to escape her.

She crawled onto the bed and rested her head on the soft pillow. A moment passed before she was able to sing the final verse. It was as if she was waiting for a deliverance that would never come, an absolution from the Goblet of Fire for whisking her son away into the great unknown with the spout of a flame. But, with the desperate hope that her son could hear her, the quavering notes passed through her lips.

"_He suffered very little then," she said, staring into Harry Potter's brilliant green eyes as he told her how her son had died. "And after all, Amos..."_

_How could she have the strength? Her husband was sobbing; why couldn't she cry? _

"…_he died just when he won the tournament. He must have been happy."_

"…and I will sing a lullaby."


End file.
